


The Silent Ending

by mcgooglykins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Everything Is The Worst, Gen, SO SAD, like the saddest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcgooglykins/pseuds/mcgooglykins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thin beam of light from the streetlamp outside the window breaks through the gap in the heavy curtains and falls silently to the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silent Ending

She sits.

The room is dark. A thin beam of light from the streetlamp outside the window breaks through the gap in the heavy curtains and falls silently to the floor. It doesn’t illuminate the room, though. It is timid, as if afraid to intrude into her world, terrified to draw her attention, to attract her notice.

 

She sits.

The room is silent, save for the incessant ticking of the clock upon the mantle. The rest of the house is quieter still, empty, and dead. The mantle clock keeps ticking however, old and weary. Too stubborn, perhaps, to give up it’s work and join the rest of the household in eternal slumber. She might be grateful for the little clock’s loyalty and persistence, if her thoughts were not held prisoner elsewhere.

 

She sits.

In one old, careworn hand she holds a fine crystal goblet, the alcohol it holds not drunk. It used to bring her some small comfort, but now she no longer feels the burn as it slides down her throat, too numb to feel the glow of warmth as it hits her belly. It no longer helps her to forget. The mantle clock diligently chimes the hour, telling it’s mistress that it’s really rather late, and oughtn’t she go to bed? She doesn’t hear.

 

She sits.

Her eyes are drawn to one spot on the far wall, where a tapestry hangs. Her entire family history neatly embroidered and prettily hung, to be proudly displayed to visitors. There are no visitors now, though, for who would want to visit a house so cold, so lonely, so dead? There are holes in the tapestry – perfect, round burn marks. She put them there, in a temper, as if burning away the name would bring the person back, would heal all the hurt, and mend what was broken. But it didn’t. All it did was erase their names, and spoil the weave. She wishes now that she hadn’t done that.

 

She rises.

Her old bones creak within her as she stirs from her soft chair. She crosses the room slowly, carefully in the dark, and reaches out a bony hand. With one ring-laden finger she gently caresses the fabric, touching a name, and then a scorch-mark, lingering there a moment before drawing sharply back, her hand clutched to her breast as if it were stung. She whirls around, suddenly energised, and stalks across the room, back to her chair to stopper her drink, and to close the curtains properly. The offending beam of light gone, she exits the room, doors closed with a muted click by those wrinkled, bony hands.

 

She climbs the stairs.

Her silken dress rustles quietly as she pauses outside a door just beyond the landing. It creaks a little as she opens it, complaining probably, at being disturbed after so long. She lingers in a doorway as candles magically light themselves, bathing everything in a warm golden glow, and deepening the shadows on her face. She hasn’t touched anything in this room, has let no one disturb it, not even the house elf. Everything sits just as the original occupant left it. A school tie hangs carelessly from a bedpost. There are socks on the floor. The desk is a scattered mess of old schoolbooks and parchment. A typical room for a teenage boy. In the cupboard, she knows, are clothes hung messily, underwear not folded, and two teddy bears, identical but for their coats, sitting together on a shelf in the dark. She gave him the one on the right, in the deep blue coat, when he was born. The other she gave to his brother.

 

She stands still.

Her eyes are closed, and she breathes in deeply, desperately hoping to catch his scent – what he smelt like as a tiny baby, as she held him in her arms, singing to him and stroking the soft downy fuzz of hair on his head, until he drifted into dreams. But there is nothing there now, only dust, and decay. The room has been empty for too long.

 

She wanders.

Aimlessly circling the room, her hand comes to rest on his racing broom, his chess set, and the Slytherin banner that has fallen down from the wall. She should hang that up, he would want that, but she feels so tired tonight, like she hasn’t the energy to pin it back up. She goes to straighten the bedclothes, but pulls her hand back – he left them improperly made, and so shall she. After all, what else of him does she have left? Moving to the cupboard, she opens it, and takes out the teddy bear in the blue coat, and holds hit a moment. She goes to turn away and close the cupboard door, but she hesitates, and shakily reaches in and removes the second bear from the darkness. She doesn’t close the door as she exits the room.

 

She moves along the corridor.

The next door she comes to is on her left. She stands outside it for a long time, her hand outstretched, paused just above the doorknob. She hasn’t been in this room for a very, very long time. But she does, eventually, grasp the handle shakily and open the door.

 

She stands in the middle of the floor.

This room is in shambles, unlike the one before. There is a bed frame, but it is broken. There are candles, but most of them are snapped. Only a few flicker into light at her presence. The bookcases are almost empty in this room, and debris lies all over the floor – spilt ink, used quills, torn books and magazines, the insides of the mattress. The cupboard door lies open, revealing nothing but a few empty clothes hangers, and a pair of itchy brown socks. She knows they’re an itchy pair, because she remembers him complaining about them, making her promise never to buy them again. She remembers him saying that they made him feel like he had fleas in his toes. She remembers telling him not to complain so much, and seeing the hardness in his eyes, the repressed anger. She wishes now, so much, that she hadn’t said that so harshly. She wishes she hadn’t said many things so harshly, and that when he’d gone, she hadn’t destroyed his room in a temper – just as she’d burnt his name off the tapestry.

 

She looks down at the two bears in her arms, and hugs them to her tightly.

 

She climbs the second flight of stairs.

Entering her bedchamber, she makes her way to the far wall. Touching her wand to a particular spot, she opens a secret compartment. There is a small wooden box inside it, and inside the box, she knows, are the last precious things she owns. Not jewels, not magical items, not family heirlooms – photographs. Photographs of her sons, of her husband, of all of them together, when they were still a happy family.

 

She sits down on the bed.

The box open on the bedside table, her favourite photographs are held in her hands. The paper they’re printed on is still sturdy and only slightly yellowed, contrasting with the paper-thinness of the wrinkled skin on her hands, almost see-through, and slightly blue in the cold of winter.

 

She lies against the pillows.

This photograph – she remembers clearly when this was taken. In it she sees herself cradling a red and wailing newborn, still in hospital. She was much younger then, and so proud, so in love with this tiny red scrap of a thing. She remembers Orion congratulating her on producing an heir, saying how loud he could scream, and weren’t he a fine son, and she replying that there would never be a son finer anywhere in the world. She meant it, too.

The next photograph brings a wistful smile to her thin lips. Her second son is held protectively in her arms, and is gazing curiously up at his elder brother, as Sirius gazes right back, curiosity and excitement evident in his tiny face. Baby Regulus reaches out and grabs a fistful of Sirius’ hair, and causes a fuss. Sighing, she reaches for the next photograph.

This one brings a tear to her eyes. Her two boys, together, playing underneath the Christmas tree with the miniature quidditch set that ‘Santa’ had gotten them as a shared present. Sirius’ team must have caught the snitch, because all of a sudden he leaps up and does his victory dance – how she’s missed seeing that – all around the room. He’s only seven, and Regulus is only four and doesn’t understand that it’s just a game, and starts to cry. Before her younger self in the picture can even move, Sirius has stopped wriggling and leaping, and has his arm around his baby brother, offering him his chocolate, or a turn on his toy broom, concern and worry etched into his round, childish face.

 

She can barely keep her eyes open now.

The last picture she sees is her favourite one. In this one Sirius is ten, and Regulus seven, and they are posing for the camera – they are off to Kings Cross Station, to see their cousin, Bella, off to Hogwarts for the first time. Orion is taking the picture, and she remembers him saying ‘Smile, my boys! Smile for me, Wally!’ and Sirius giggling and deliberately _not_ smiling – rather, he pulled a face, and Regulus following suit, and Orion’s deep laugh as he snapped the picture anyway, Sirius with his eyes crossed and cheeks puffed out, Regulus with his tongue stuck out and nose wrinkled, and herself, arms around them both, laughing and distorting her own face. It was such a happy moment. It was one of the last they ever had.

‘If only,’ she thinks, ‘if only I hadn’t…’ If only she hadn’t done a lot of things, she might still have her sons today. But she can’t change the past, wish as she might. Her baby, Regulus, lying alone somewhere in an unmarked grave, murdered by those she thought were ‘the right sort’. Sirius – and Sirius! How she had gone wrong with him! He was such a _good boy_ , she can’t fathom how he turned from that cheeky rascal into a cold blooded killer, who could betray his best friends, and murder innocent bystanders, even if they were muggles. He might already be dead, for all she knew. She wasn’t allowed to see him in Azkaban. He probably wouldn’t want her to. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left, all those years ago, and she’d screamed after him that he was no longer her son.

 As she closes her eyes, a single tear rolls down her cheek.

 

********************************************************

 

In the morning, the house elf finds her. When he can’t wake his beloved mistress, he calls the closest relative he knows of to help him. Narcissa Malfoy surveys her aunt’s body sadly. About her are the photographs, and clutched to her breast the two identical teddy bears. Narcissa’s husband begins to make the proper arrangements, as she sits by her aunt’s bedside and tenderly holds her hand. ‘How sad’, she thinks to herself, ‘to die so completely alone’.


End file.
